I wish someone told me that the only person who has the ability to define your sexual experiences is you. I grew up thinking “virginity” was this physical box trapped inside of me that needed to be protected. That defined who I was as a person. And if I gave this box to someone I didn’t love, that made me a whore. It’s strange because my parents were fairly religious but they never pressed abstinence on me. We never even had a conversation about sex to be honest. Everything I learned about sex came from the internet and classmates at school. During my time served in middle school, most girls were already slut shaming girls for the spaghetti straps on their shoulders, the shade of gloss on their lips, and the number of boys they kissed. And even if the rumors weren’t true, once even one person knew you “did it,” your life was over. Sometimes the slut shaming was so bad it lead to girls dropping out of school. Cutting their hair and outcasting themselves to the far corners of the halls. I never said anything aloud but I wasn’t perfect, I still judged quietly. Lowering my gaze at girls with red “A’s” stamped on their chests without even knowing their whole story.
My graduating class in middle school was less than 200 and once I started high school, I was trampling my way past thousands of students in the halls. Yes it was intimidating but I liked that this time it was harder for rumors to spread. This time I didn’t have to worry about cliques and popularity. I was a small fish in a giant sea. In high school I met people from all different backgrounds and I began to question everything. I questioned my faith, my principals, and virginity. I hated virginity. Virginity felt like this band aid glued to my skin that I needed to rip off in order to feel like a woman. In order to feel like I wasn’t docile and fragile. I wish I knew sex was more complicated than that. Health class taught me about STIs, strange diagrams of organs I didn’t understand, and that I needed to avoid pregnancy at any and all costs. But we never talked about the emotions that come with sex. Why people even have sex in the first place. Someone once told me that people should only have sex for love, children, or fun but how can we ignore all the reasons people really do it? Some people have sex for passion, for loneliness, for heartbreak, for healing. And I’ve been guilty of all the above.
We also never talked about sexual fluidity. Entering romantic and sexual experiences as someone who’s gay, lesbian, or bisexual. Sex was taught as only being between a man and woman. As something penetrative without anything in between. Like if I was with another woman that wouldn’t really count as sex. Like I wasn’t allowed to like boys and girls. It wasn’t until I went to college I took my first legitimate health class taught by a queer woman who advocated for queer health education. For the first time I learned the differences between romantic and sexual attraction. The assurance that heteronormative sex wasn’t the only way to have sex and I wish that was something I had in my life sooner.
Film and Television romanticized losing your virginity as this rose petal candle lit night that defined the scope of your sexuality. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Because what if you don’t have that candle lit night? What if it’s awkward? What if it’s sweaty? What if it’s smelly? Or what if… it didn’t go how you wanted it to go? I define sex as a consensual, positive, and respectful intimacy. Anything else just isn’t sex to me. And everyone has that right. It’s your body, no one else’s. So let’s stop asking about people’s body counts, first times, and lack of sex in general. We all have our own stories and our right to define and share those stories with whoever we please.
Simply Mo 